Petra's Story
by writer1900
Summary: Petra's life. Ender wasn't the only soldier in battle school. Meet the one who taught him everything he knew. This story was designed as a parallel novel to Ender's Game, so even if you haven't read the real book, you can still read this. I don not own the book Ender's Game in any way.
1. Chapter 1

I hate school. Always have, always will. It's just so _boring, _sitting here listening to the same basic stuff day after day after day. I'd so much rather be outside doing things that actually matter, like learning how to fight. I mean, I already know how, obviously, but knowing more advanced hand-to-hand combat would be nice. I just need to move around more, be active and jump and run and get my adrenaline pumping… not like in school. We just sit there.

That's why I like fighting. Ever since I could walk I've been taking karate, Ju Jitzu, kickboxing, mixed martial arts, boxing… I love how in fighting, you use your body all the time, and the action never lets up, but also how you need to use your mind, too, to come up with new ways to beat the enemy all the time. It's a true test of strength, to see if you can be brilliant under so much physical and mental pressure with so many other distractions.

So today, like any other day, I stare out the window and daydream about my kickboxing class after school. I only have one more period left to trudge through before I finally get to go. Today we're going to try flip-kicks, where we do a front flip and kick the enemy with your heel as you're coming down for your landing. I can feel my pulse rushing already.

"Earth to Petra, wherever she may be. There is still a class going on, Petra, would you please answer the question?" Damn it. Caught. Whatever, I can handle this. First grade is a joke. "I'm sorry, Mr. Turner, could you repeat the question please?" Mr. Turner rolls his eyes and begins to lecture me. "Miss Arkanian, I understand that it is close to the end of the day, however, there is still class and you are still a part of it. If you continue dozing off during my science lessons, more serious measures will have to be taken."

Oh, please. 'More serious measures'? For my idiot six-year-old classmates, just hearing the threat being given to me is enough to make them shiver. Obviously none of them have ever taken anyone down in a Mixed Martial Arts championship match. Don't they realize the threat is empty? Can't they see how little it matters even if 'more serious measures' WERE to be taken? What could they do to us, take away our nap time? We're six! You can't get into trouble here on Earth until you outgrow your cute little noggin.

Yet my naive, trusting, sweet little classmates think any threat from their dear beloved guardians of teachers and parents is worse than the end of the world. God, it bothers me how stupid they all are. Grade one is useless, on top of everything. You don't start learning for real until high school, where most of my dear classmates will buckle under the 'pressure' of having to learn something real for the first time in their lives. I wish I could go to high school right now, though. I hate how everyone treats me like a baby just because I'm little. I could do better than most of my teachers on a high school test, probably. But my talents are wasted here, because nobody is smart enough to see through the adorable face of a five-and-a-half-year old.

Mr. Turner continues after a pause, waiting to see if I've registered his 'threat'. Oh, I have. When he sees that he has yet again failed to bother me, he sighs and says, "The question, Miss Arkanian, is what is the purpose of your brain?" I snort and laugh out loud. "_That's _the question I so desperately am supposed to answer?" Mr. Turner narrows his eyes. "Yes, Miss Arkanian, that is the question. Can you answer it or not?" Of course I can answer it! What kind of stupid question is that? But I'm going to really drag this one out. "Mr. Turner, may I please use the board to give me a visual example for me to explain, along with words?" Mr. Turner suddenly looks pleased. "Yes, of course you may."

I hide my smile and waltz to the front of the room. "The brain, as I'm sure you are all aware, looks like this:" I draw a picture of the brain on the board, pointing to different parts of it as I speak. "Each section of the brain has a specific function to control. _This _section, for example, controls your working memory. _This _section controls your executive function. _These _sections control your short and long-term memory. _This _section controls your ability to reason and make intelligent choices. All these sections of the brain combined can generally make up your basic intelligence level. So if, for example, you have _my _brain," I pause to smile and bat my eyes, "these areas will be plentiful and full of wonderfulness and candy." This earns a few chuckles from around the room, even though I'm sure none of them know what 'executive function' means. The answer, of course, that Mr. Turner is looking for, is 'The brain controls our bodies.' That was the answer he spoon-fed the class yesterday. So I specifically targeted the areas that have to do with general intellect in the brain to avoid his answer while still correctly answer the question.

"However, if you aren't as fortunate as dear ol' Petra and you end up like _Mr. Turner, _for example…" I wave my hand over at the teacher, who's familiar 'Petra-is-_so_-going-to-get-it look is creeping back over his face, "These areas will be in short supply - if we assume that they're even there at all." At this point, the class erupts into laughter. "Alright, Petra, I think that's enough." Mr. Turner raises his voice to fruitlessly attempt to get the class back under control, or at least under _his _control instead of mine. "Oh, but Mr. Turner," I reply innocently, staring wide-eyed up into his face, "I haven't answered your question yet!" I turn back to the class, who has quieted down enough for me to continue, waiting eagerly to listen to the girl who bold-faced the teacher so directly. Mr. Turner sighs and gives up, giving me the go to continue.

"Alright, so, where was I? Oh, yes, so if you, like Mr. Turner, are given very little in the, er, _brains _department," I pause and smile, allowing my downright moronic peers the subsequent time they need to get the joke, "then these areas of the brain will have to work harder than everyone else's to carry out the same functions everybody else's brains do easily. This is why Mr. Turner is so mean all the time. It's because his brain is working too hard on being smart and not enough on being nice-" "Alright, Miss Arkanian, what is your point?" Mr. Turner's getting real pissed now. I think I went a bit too far bringing in his personality as a whole. Well, too late to turn back now. "Yes, Mr. Turner. The point is that your question is unanswerable because depending on whose brains are bigger in which places, the brain will have different overall functions on the body. As well, there are many different areas of the brain and it would take a long time to explain all the different tasks a brain carries out… maybe even an entire _lesson._" I grin mischievously at that, knowing only Mr. Turner will understand the hidden meaning behind my careful choice of words.

Just then, the bell rings. As I walk out the door, however, Mr. Turner calls out, "Petra, a word, please."


	2. Chapter 2

My heart plummets down to my feet. What about kickboxing? "Don't worry, it will only take a minute," he says, getting up to close the door. "I know you must have some sort of fighting class after school today, and I don't plan on keeping you here long." He smiles, almost kindly, down at me. Where is this going? "Petra, please take a seat." I decide to wait this one out and see where it goes. I take a seat. "Petra, I understand that you are a very gifted girl. I know you're being monitored as we speak through that device on your neck to see if you are fit for classified I.F business. I know you probably feel bored here at school, and with good reason. I have already been to the principal about moving you up another couple of grades,"

What? He did? All of a sudden, I'm very confused. Is it because he feels too outsmarted? He wants to get rid of me? Isn't that a lot of work just to deal with one kid? Then again, I'm no average run-of-the-mill kid, but still. "-but he declined because you have already skipped a year, and he says it will put too much pressure on you at too young of an age…" Now I'm mad. So it's back to babying, huh? Why can't anyone see I'm ready for more? I glower. Mr. Turner notices my expression, smiles, and leans in close. "…But I think you and I both know that that's bullshit." Now I smile, but not for the reason he thinks. I'm not that easy to sway, how stupid does he think I am? Mr. Turner has never sworn before, and it's almost comical to hear it, so I smile at that to play along more believably.

Mr. Turner sits back in his chair and puts his hands, fingers crossed, on the desk. Here it comes. "However, in the mean time, you are still in class, and even if you may be intellectually above some of your peers, you are not above anyone on any hierarchy. This display of behaviour today was entirely unacceptable and you are not to act that way towards me or any other teacher again. Even if you may not need this kind of education, the other students do, and you are stopping them from learning what they need to to be successful. I'm not going to ask you if you understand, Petra, because you and I both know that you do. If this sort of thing happens again, Petra, there will be more serious measures taken, and you will not enjoy the consequences. Dismissed, and have a nice afternoon!"

Oh, please, Mr. Turner, nice afternoon my ass. You're an awful teacher for having to make threats, and an even worse one for not being able to confront me in class. You're a coward, Mr. Turner, you can't even face a five-year-old in front of other six-year-olds. And when you do, you have to try and mellow her first so that you can get her under control. You as dumb as a thumb, Mr. Turner. At this, I smile. It sounds so tough inside my head to come up with slang like that, so powerful. I'll be sure to use that at some point.

I walk outside the building into the schoolyard. Luckily, Mr. Turner was honest enough when he said he wouldn't take long, and I still have five minutes until the bus arrives. I jog around to the front to wait and start bouncing on the balls of my feet, ready to explode with excitement. Fighting is always my favourite part of the day. I look up the street, willing the bus to come into sight. It doesn't come, but it looks like I'll get to fight now after all. Some kids from two or three grades up are heading towards me, and the don't seem happy. It might not be about me, but in my gut it feels like it is.

Sure enough, when they get to me, they stop. "You Petra?" The kid up in front asks, arms crossed. He must be the leader of the gang. All I can do now is play along. These kids are all way bigger than me, and they outnumber me. It would be a stupid fight, to try and beat them all. Better to just go with it. "Ya, I'm Petra. Why'd you care?" The gang leader steps forward. "You know, you got a pretty big mouth trying to sass-talk me after what you did to us here." Now I'm confused. "What you talking about? A little nothing like me?" He smiles maliciously. This fight isn't going to end well. "Little nothing is right. You know, recently us fifth graders been getting lots more classwork to do. You know why?" The smile is gone. He stares down at me. I stare back up at him. Cowards don't scare me, I think, not Mr. Turner, and not you either. "Why?" "It's 'cuz _somebody _did well on their test scores. Really. Well. Whatchoo think about that?"

Test scores? It takes me a moment to realize what he's getting at. Then I get it. "You mean those tests my teacher Mr. Turner gave me? They nothin! What's that got to do with you fifth graders?" I already know. Mr. Turner told me he was trying to get me moved up a few grades. The tests he's been giving us recently, the 'really hard, trick-question ones' that no one in the class but me could answer, those must have been fifth grade tests that Mr. Turner was using to prove to the principal I should be advanced. My mind reels with how these thugs could be related. Mr. Turner and the fifth grade teacher must have gone over my results. Maybe Mr. Turner was asking what grade I got on the tests. Maybe Mr. Turner didn't even write the tests. That would make sense, since he's an idiot. But how did my tests land these guys extra work? They answer my questions for me. "Some Turner guy been showing our teacher Mrs. Phelps some tests you been doing. Grade five tests. Now Mrs. Phelps is mad cuz some smarty-pants girl from a lower grade be outsmarting us. So she give _us _more work cuz of it. And now _you _is gonna pay for whatchoo did."

Shit. Stupid Mr. Turner is always causing problems. Now I'm going to get beat up and I won't be able to do my kickboxing class. Not to mention the I.F watching me through the monitor will probably cross me off their list once they see me so weak. No. I have to find a way out of this. Hmm. These morons are probably jealous that I did better on their tests than they did, so they need to prove it to themselves that they really are better than me. If they can't do it intellectually, and they can't, they'll do it physically, where they'll obviously beat me because I'm tiny - small for my age, a year advanced, so I shouldn't even be _in _school until next year, and of course, I'm five and a half years younger than them. So in this field, they overpower me everywhere. My advantage is that they obviously don't realize I fight, so I can surprise them. I can probably take out one of them, if not definitely, but not all of them as a group. I'll have to separate the leader.

This all runs through my head in about two seconds. You have to think fast in a fight or else you lose. And you can't lose. So now there's only one thing left I can do: Shame the gang leader into fighting me alone.

"Oo, I'm gonna pay, huh? That sounds real tough. Almost as tough as a grade fiver beating up an advanced first grader with only nine of his friends, also grade fives. That's gonna sound real cool to all your friends, huh? Hey, I beat up the grade oner who's so smart she tricked all our teachers into giving us more work, I beat her up and I only needed nine friends to help me because she was just so tiny and weak, and I wasn't scared at all, only a little bit, because you know, she was already five and a half years old, oooo, scary."

The gang leader snarls. "Alright, then, miss Moral Compass, I'll beat you up alone. Happy?" He steps toward me, fist ready, getting into fighting stance by bending his knees just so. Obviously he isn't very experienced. He's bending way too low and his arm is too curved around, like he wants to punch something behind my head instead of the side of my face. I kick him hard in the crotch, where I'm close enough to be dead-on and he's bent his knees enough to make sure I can hit really hard. How kind of him. He falls to the ground with a pained oof that forces the air out of his lungs and hits his face on the pavement. It's over. That was easy. …Then his friend cries: "Let' get her!"

They all charge towards me at once, bending forwards to grab me. They instinctively bend their knees as they surround me to get lower, not as low as the leader, but low enough that they have to open their legs for balance. I somersault between the closest one's legs, sticking one leg out straight so that when I come up my heel kicks him in the crotch. As he falls over I stand up out of the way and duck a punch. Using the leverage the punching arm has right over my head, I reach up and grab it as the arms owner pulls it in. Before he has time to react I pull myself up onto his shoulder by climbing up his arm, swinging onto it by using the movement he made by pulling his arm back towards his body. Once I'm on his shoulder I kick him in the head, and use the momentum of him falling to kick off the side of his head onto somebody else's back. Then I punch him in the back of the head and he falls over, me landing safely on his back. I'm sweating. Five more to go.

The next one grabs my arms and pulls me into the air. I use the leverage to swing and kick him in the face. I get his nose, and he lets go instantly as the blood pours down. The last four surround me from all sides. I'm pretty tired from all the jumping around onto people, which I'm not used to. I make a mental note to get the head of my mixed martial arts class to let me spar with some bigger kids sometimes. Then it's back to the battle. These four are obviously even more inexperienced then the other five. They are all leaning towards me at once, never making a plan, never communicating. If they did, they could easily take me down. Instead, they all jump towards me at once, so all I have to do is duck as their heads all meet in the middle. I hear the crack and roll out of the way, through the nearest's legs. They all fall as one, then just lie there. I look around, wipe off my hands, and walk away. It was their fight, they started it. Now it's their problem. Anyway, the I.F will be along soon. There's no way they didn't see that through the monitor.

The monitor, which is on the back of my neck so that they can connect it to my central nervous system, is designed so that they can be inside my head at all times. They see what I see, hear what I hear, think what I think. Then they write reports on it, because that seems to be all adults do. When I get older, I'm going to try not to become one of them. It's so boring. Then, if they like the report, they take me up to Battle School, where they train genius children into soldiers to fight the bugger war against the alien invasion.

It sounds like something straight out of a kiddie science fiction book, but the threat is real. They almost got us last time, almost wiped us out. And now it's been eighty years, and the buggers have had as much time as we have to prepare for this final war. But they're smarter than us. Stronger than us. Bigger than us. And they outnumber us fifty to one. We need a genius among geniuses among geniuses to fight this war. To win this war. We need another Mazer Rackham, the one who one the last war, with one tiny ship against five hundred, only twenty times as smart. Twenty times as cunning. Two hundred times as successful. And, since they put the monitor in my neck, I'm a candidate.

So the I.F will come and clean up this mess like they've cleaned up all of their other ones, and I'll go to kickboxing class. I check my watch. I've got about half a minute. I race to the bus stop, tired as I am. I can rest on the bus, I've been waiting for this all day.


	3. Chapter 3

After kickboxing class, which is two hours, I walk home. Kickboxing is much closer to my house than school is, so there's no need to take the bus. By the time I get home, I'm exhausted, dripping with sweat. Kickboxing is really hard, and I'm in the advanced class, so it's thirty times tougher. Flip-kicks are especially draining, but I mastered it, which is awesome. It would have been really helpful earlier today during my fight, but whatever. I won that with only three hits, and they weren't even hard hits. Didn't even count as punches. Still left bruises though, all over my stomach. Whatever. No point in whining. The fight took all the fight out of me, which I guess is why I'm so much more deflated than I usually am after a tough practice.

I reach my house, a shabby brick house, but from my vantage point, it looks like it reaches the stars. When I get older I'll probably find it tiny and cramped, but for now it's as good as any mansion. There are advantages to being small.

I let myself in through the side door and go upstairs to my room. I put my desk on my desk table, and my bag in the closet. My school clothes also go in the closet because they're clean - all we did is sit inside today, physical education is only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I strip my kickboxing clothes and throw them in the laundry basket on my way to the bathroom. I take a shower in there, cool water so I get goosebumps all up my arms and down my legs, and let the water wash away my soreness from the fighting. After my shower I check the time on my watch - perfect timing, I've got ten minutes until dinner. I brush my hair, which goes down to my shoulders in straight brown rows, and my hands, to clean them off for supper, then grab my towel, dry myself off and head back to my room with it wrapped safely around me to get changed. I don't like people seeing me naked, not even my family, because I like to pretend I'm a boy, and I can't if they see my body. I guess I've always just felt more like a boy, acted more like one, so it seems easier to just… be one. Even if I can't really be one, it's always nice to pretend.

I get changed back into the school clothes I wore today because I know my mother will make me wash them tonight, because I wore them, and there's no point in wasting two sets of clothes. Today I was wearing blue jeans and an old ripped t-shirt. Worst possible for fighting; no wonder I was so tired.

I head downstairs with seven minutes left until supper. I know it's not really that exact, my mother probably already has dinner ready and is just waiting for me and Stefan, my brother, but I prefer everything to have a specific time, and if you have to wait three minutes just standing there until you get to the allotted time, so be it, and never be late. Just like in the military. It's almost like I was born for Battle School. I didn't get like that because of the monitor. I'm not that pathetic. The monitor got there because of me being like that.

When I get to the dinner table, desk under my arm so I can do some research as I eat (today I'm doing quantum mechanics) something is off. Everything looks the same, but it's just the way my family stares at me that I know something is up. So I ask. "What's going on?" My mind races with the possibilities. Did the kickboxing coach complain because I was more subdued today? Did someone from school call home about the fight?

Then I notice the guy in the living room. "Hey! Who's that? Seriously, what's going on?" The man rises, and I notice he's wearing a uniform. An I.F uniform. He comes towards me, hand outstretched. "Hello Petra. My name's Dap, and I'm from Battle School. As you know, we've been watching you for almost three years. We think you'd be a good fit for our program. What do you say? Will you come to Battle School?" He watches me, waiting. My parents watch, waiting. Stefan watches, waiting. And I watch, too, waiting. Because I honestly don't know. As a monitor, the whole idea of Battle School was fine. It's just something there in my neck, that I can forget about, just a small reminder that something _might _happen. But this is real. This is serious. What I choose today, what I choose _right now, _is going to affect the rest of my life. Geez, I'm only five!

"Can I talk to Dap alone?" There are so many questions I have that will influence my decision, but they're questions I don't want my parents to hear. I don't want them knowing about. Dap falters momentarily, surprised at my emotionless response, I suppose, but he recovers quickly. "Of course you can. And I promise if you decide to come, I won't take you without letting you see your parent again." This is aimed more at my parents than at me, who started nervously giving each other looks and nudges that they wrongly thought no one else could see. I hadn't even thought of saying goodbye to my parents, which instantly fills me with guilt. I guess I've always just been really independent.

I follow Dap into the living room and close the door behind me. "Take a seat wherever, Dap. Make yourself comfortable." Dap smiles and chooses the family couch to sit on. He sits back, not slouching, but leaning comfortably with his back all the way against the seat and his feat firmly on the floor. I follow suite in an overstuffed armchair that I can sit in with my legs straight out without my feet even reaching over the edge. However, I don't usually sit like this, and today is no exception as I bundle my feet underneath me just so so that I can instantly leap out of the chair if I need to but my feet won't get numb if I'm here for a while.

"So, Dap, what exactly _is _Battle School?" The small smile Dap was wearing instantly vanishes, replaced by a look of discomfort. He shifts in his seat. "Well, Petra, I can't really tell you most of it until you agree to come, because it's classified, but the basic gist of it, is, as the name suggests, a battle school. We find brilliant young minds like yourself from all over the world and take them into one of our schools, which are all in space, and we train them how to become soldiers. You still do regular schooling, but it's much more advanced than what you're doing now and we place you much more heavily into things like military history, mathematics and computer sciences. Then, of course, there's also a gravity game we play to mock wars in space by teaming the children against each other to 'battle'. The scores are taken very seriously, and depending on how well you do, you can go to either tactical, support, or pre-command school to become an officer. You get your first leave when you're twelve to go to one of these schools."

"So I won't come back for a very long time."

"No, you won't. Probably not until you're sixteen. You're parents and your brother, they'll still love you when you get back, but they won't know you. And vice versa. It won't be an easy life if you come with me, or a normal one. But we think you can, and we need you. If we didn't need you, I wouldn't be here right now. I wouldn't bother, and I wouldn't want to put you through it all. Only we do. We do need you."

"You aren't advertising this place very well." Dap laughed at that. Let him. What else is he going to laugh at? He seemed very serious, albeit nice enough for an officer. Besides, I still have other questions.

"What's the boy/girl ratio there?"

"It's not much. Most girls don't make it into the program due to all the centuries of evolution working against them. Making them mellow. Changing their nature. All the things you yourself hate about being a girl that people automatically assume, those are the reasons. We aren't sexist about who gets into the program, I promise."

"I wasn't worried. Will I still get to keep up my fighting if I go with?"

"Yes, there are personal defence classes there that you can take, as well as a gym and of course, in the gravity game there usually ends up being lots of physical contact."

"I have one more question."

"Ask away."

"Why do you need us? You mentioned earlier that you do."

"I think you know the answer to that, Petra."

"I want to make certain."

Dap sighed. "You really are stubborn, aren't you, Petra?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

Dap chuckled a bit, then grew serious again. "It's because of the buggers. They're coming, and we need the best of the best to fight them. So? What do you say?"

"It won't be an easy life, it won't be a fun life, it won't be a normal life and I'll throw away my childhood to go to war and fight an alien invasion that we are almost guaranteed to lose. Correct?"

Dap sighed again. "Correct, indeed."

"But I'm needed, so I'll go."

Now Dap really looks shocked, but tries to cover it. "You will?"

"I don't want to, but I will."

"Excellent. Let's go tell you family. Remember, you are free to change your mind up until the moment you get in the car with me. After that, you stay at the liberty of Battle School."

"I understand." At that, Dap begins to rise and walk out of the room. "Wait," I say. "I still have one more question." Dap, puzzled, sits back down. "And what is that question?"

"You've been monitoring me for almost three years. What happened now that made you decide I was right for the program?"

Dap looks grim, but I shoot him a look that says I-want-to-know-anyway-don't-even-bother-trying-to- hide-it. Dap sighs.

"Every child who comes to Battle School has to pass some sort of test as a judge of character."

"The monitor."

"Not...exactly. The monitor is part of it, yes, but not every child goes through the monitor, nor is it the entire test."

"Then why do you need the monitor?"

"Well, the monitor is part of your test, don't get me wrong, Petra. But the monitor only gives us your general personality, telling us if you'd fit in at Battle School. The real test isn't something we can plan, isn't something we can always control. That test shows us how you react under pressure. It's just like your fighting. You may be the best puncher and kicker and dodger in the class, during classes. But then, when you get into a real fight, if you let the pressure get to you, if you buckle down under the stress and forget when you're supposed to punch and how hard... then you lose. Do you understand what I'm getting at?"

"I think so. This test proves that we can retain our personalities and our judgement under the heat of a battle, because if we can't, then we can never fight in a war and we would be useless to you. Correct?"

"Absolutely." Dap smiles. Apparently this went better than he thought it would.

"So what was my test?" Smile goes poof. I almost smile at that.

"We had planned your test... it wasn't supposed to happen the way it did. But it turns out you did even better under your test than you possibly could have under ours."

"Stop avoiding the question, Dap. What was my test?"

"Firstly, you do not speak to officers in that tone. I am legally allowed to beat you up, and lose your doubts, because I can. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Your test was this afternoon... it was the fight you had with those boys."

"Why do you seem so cautious?"

"Let's just say... the results were a lot different than what he had predicted they would be."

"Let's not just say. Spill it."

At this point, Dap gets up from the couch, walks over to me and slaps me across the cheek with just the tips of his fingers. It makes almost no noise, except for a sharp 'thwack', and stings horribly. I don't move, not even when I feel a bead of blood roll down the mark made closest to my nose. I just stare at Dap until he sits down again. He doesn't break the stare.

"I didn't want to tell you this information, and I don't think that I'm supposed to, either, but since you asked so nicely, I'll tell you." His voice is laced with sarcasm. Then it softens to almost a whisper. "Nobody had predicted that you would single-handedly put nine eleven year olds in the hospital, let alone kill almost half of them. We had assumed you would immediately take on all nine, get a little hurt, almost lose, and then find a way to win. We hadn't even planned the situation. We were never planning on letting you take on nine boys. However, we let it continue because we knew we could step in if you got too injured. We were not expecting what you did, and we were not planning to let you in based on our predictions. However, you proved that you are a much better tactician than we thought, albeit much more brutal. You are not supposed to know that you killed four children. Do not share that information until after the war is over, and please try and avoid lawyers."

I sit there reeling in shock. Those four boys who hit each other in their own heads, then crashed down onto the pavement... I should have known. They never even made a sound. All I can think, though, is, it was their own faults. All I did was protect themselves, and I even gave them the chance to back off by only fighting one. They had it coming, they asked for it... so it's not murder. It's stupidity. Except...

"Why would you accept me into the program for killing people?"

Dap is speechless. I'm not grieving, I don't even seem upset, and yet I'm practically a serial killer in his eyes. I'm not begging for forgiveness, I'm not crying, I'm not worried about the families or the remaining boys. I'm analyzing the situation. Analyzing and getting information, no different before I got the awful news, no different after. Then Dap gets over his shock and answers my question.

"Because that's the kind of brutality we need to beat the buggers. We need the heartless killers, Petra, even the accidental ones."


	4. Chapter 4

After a tearful hug to each of my parents and my brother, I walk towards the I.F car, this time leading Dap instead of following him. It may be the last time I'll ever say that. When we reach the car, Dap opens the door for me because I'm too short to reach, but when he tries to help me in I shrug off the help and leap into the car, then hop onto the cool leather seat and buckle myself in. It's too big and there's no car seat, so I pull the shoulder belt around behind me and use only the waist belt. Then Dap gets in next to me, and I realize that there are two more people already in the van. One is wearing a white coat.

"Are you going to take out my monitor?" I ask White Coat directly, instead of asking Dap about him as expected. White Coat looks surprised, but turns to face me and says, "Yes, actually, I am. How did you know? Did Dap tell you?"

"No, Dap didn't mention it. I assumed you were going to remove it because I didn't think it would be necessary in Battle School to have one in, since it's used for testing. I haven't gotten it out yet, and I'm leaving for Battle School now, so I figured we were going to stop at the clinic and get it removed, then go to the launch. Since we're in a hurry, it wouldn't do much good to have to wait the normal waiting room time to get it removed, better to have the doctor with us who can immediately round up the nurses and get the job done. And since you were wearing the white coat, I did the math and decided that he was the driver, Dap is Dap, and that leaves you - the doctor." The doctor smiles and turns to Dap. "She's going to do well."

I clear my throat. "_She _is right here. You're allowed to talk to me too, you know." It bothers me to no avail when people ignore me just because I'm young. The doctor does a double take, then continues to Dap, "Maybe a bit _too _well, if you know what I mean." He smiles. I frown and cross my arms.

Dap looks at me and says, "Petra, you're going to have to learn to hold your tongue. Speaking to an official like that will get you iced." I look right back at him and say, "Dap, you're going to have to learn to get used to it, because I'll never learn to hold my tongue." The doctor laughs despite himself, and Dap shoots him a look. To me, all he says is, "You'll learn." I'm not worried.

We get to the clinic. The doctor lies me down on the table, face down. "Now, Petra, this won't hurt, but you will feel a little pressure, and a bit of tingling. This thing is designed for safe removal." I nod as much as I can being face down. Obviously, the fact that he makes sure to reassure me that it won't hurt means that it most certainly will. But that's not a problem; I can take it. I don't know what the doctor does, but the next thing I know I'm on the floor, back arched, fists clenched, shaking like I'm having a seizure, totally out of control. I try to get up, but I can't. It's like my brain has been taken over by someone else who has decided to hold me down in this uncomfortable position. I have no choice or will.

And then it begins to burn. Somewhere in the very back of my mind, I think, It's funny how long it took for me to realize I'm in pain. But that thought doesn't hold my attention for very long, because at the front of my mind, is one word: **FIRE**. The pain consumes me, burning me up, worse than anything else I have ever felt in my entire life. It hurts so much it almost doesn't even hurt, like the numb feeling you get when you break a bone, how it tingles and kills at the same time, especially when you move the bone, and I am moving, all my bones, so all my bones must be broken. It hurts so bad I can _see _the pain, I can see and hear it and even taste it, too. The pain, oh it hurts so much, like nothing I've ever felt before. It hurts so badly that I want to die, just for a second, just to put me out of my pain. Then I realize how weak that thought is but I can't control it anymore, it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts.

I vaguely pick up that the doctor is screaming, yelling at his nurses to help put me back on the table, to get the antidote, to get a lawsuit for how many times this has happened, but it just sounds like a buzz in my ears compared to the sound of pain, which screams red and orange and yellow and pink. I'm not even making sense anymore, 'seeing' the pain, but I can't help it anymore because it hurts so bad. Then I feel the tiniest, smallest, barely noticeable touch of an eight-inch needle driving into the back of my neck, just above where the monitor always was.

The needle is like ice water to my fire. The water hurts too, it feels so cold it burns, but everywhere that uncomfortable sensation spreads, the fire subsides and I gain control of my own body back. I lay there on the bed in shock, not even moving. "Shit," yells the doctor, kicking the table I lay on, "we could have permanently unplugged her. Can't they just lock these kids up in space? Do they have to cripple them as well?" Then he leaves, and a nurse takes his place. I sit up, hoping if I don't think about the pain, it'll go away. The nurse looks surprised to see me moving. "Ow," I mutter, glaring at the floor, "that hurt."

The nurse looks like she just saw God. "Do you always respond so well to injuries?" She stares at me, not believing her eyes for some reason. Did I turn purple or something? "Yes…" A grin forms on her face. "Did you know that you are the first child to ever go through such a severe reaction to the removal process, though certainly not the first child to have a similar reaction, and also the first child to go through a reaction that took less than fifteen minutes to regain speech and bodily control?" "If you're saying that I had the worst reaction and the best healing time, then no I did not know that, nor did I care. You could have at least warned me it was going to hurt." Even though I already knew, it isn't fair to all the kids who didn't.

The nurse still has that stupid grin on her face, only now she's shaking her head as well. "Would you like me to take you to Dap?" "Ya." "Alright, then, let's go." She reaches out to make for my hand, but again, I shrug it off. "I don't need your charity." I tell her directly. I'm so sick of everyone treating me like a child just because of my age. Alexander the Great was only sixteen, and the youngest Egyptian Pharaoh ever was eight. I'm five and a half with the same capabilities, all that's holding me back is my stature. Maybe that will change after Battle School.

When we find Dap, he isn't even surprised at my resilience. He just comments on my stubbornness and we head out to the car. "Get in," Dap says. He doesn't offer me help this time, and I smile. Maybe things will change at Battle School. I get in the car and lean back against the seat, this time alone in the back, now that we no longer have the doctor on board and Dap can sit in front. Since no one else is sitting there, I lie down across the two seats and get comfortable. I'm tired and in pain and can use the rest, and anyway, it's a long drive from Armenia to Florida, which is where the launch is going to be. I fall asleep, hoping I'll be back to my normal energetic self when I wake up. Just because I can take the pain, doesn't mean I want to.


End file.
